


begin to be half of what you think of me

by kevystel



Series: have you heard there's a rumour in st. petersburg [4]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anxiety, Domestic, Future Fic, Gen, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Slice of Life, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-20 04:29:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9475736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kevystel/pseuds/kevystel
Summary: In which Yuuri's self-image finally starts aligning with reality.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hellodeer said ‘[this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2F8HvKqnp5s) works both ways for viktuuri. im so emo’ and as a result you get me titling this last fic in the series after it, in keeping with my Brand of being incurably cheesy

Yuuri comes into the rink at mid-afternoon on his day off. He can’t help it. The ice tugs at his soles — this _need_ to be back on the rink where he belongs, to align himself with the rhythms where he belongs, like a compass needle locking into place — and he’s explored the city enough on his own, anyway. He’s getting pretty good at reading street signs. Yuuri’s pronunciation is still mediocre, although that can be counted as an improvement. A month passed before he dared to open his mouth to practise speaking Russian at all. Strangers in St. Petersburg, he’s found, are indulgent. Some of them recognise him.

As always, a deep sense of peace settles in Yuuri’s core when he steps out of his shoes, quietly, and settles down on the bench to strap on his skates. Initially the St. Petersburg rink was his landing-point in a sea of unfamiliarity, and now it feels like the warm sun from which they all radiate out into the city streets. From here, Yuuri can make out Yakov’s voice raised in exasperation, and the distinctive scrape of Yurio’s blades — Yurio’s edgework isn’t all there yet — and Mila slumped against the rink barrier to sip from her water bottle, and Yuuri smiles. Rinks are the same everywhere. This one looks like home.

He gets to his feet, steadying himself with one hand on the barrier, and barely glances at his skate guards as he removes them before gliding out onto the ice. Second nature. The sound of his blades slicing cleanly into the ice is soothing; he could be alone now, him and his compulsory figures, except that he isn’t. Yuuri thinks that every skater has their own — pattern? — of skating, the noises they make, fingerprint-unique. Like the radio operators’ “fists” he learned about, in a course he took on World War II history in Detroit. The weight of their pressure on the telegraph keys as they banged out transmissions in Morse code. Yuuri can track Viktor across the rink with his eyes closed. Yuuri is lighter, finer, not as heavy — not as strong.

‘You’re late, Yura,’ Yakov growls behind him.

‘Hmm?’ Yuuri opens his eyes. He takes off his glasses, reaches into the pocket of his JSF jacket for one of Viktor’s old hair ties and pulls his hair back into a bun. ‘But it’s my day off.’

Yakov snorts as though he’s made a joke Yuuri has just missed. ‘We know.’

Yuuri slides into a lap around the rink to warm up, sticking close to the barrier to keep out of the others’ way. Mila’s a city girl — Moscow — born and raised, which is something she and Viktor (St. Petersburg) have in common. This, unexpectedly, happens to be something Viktor and Lilia also have in common, not that anyone would ever insult Lilia by bringing that up. Yakov and Yurio are from further… further out? Further into the country. After spending this much time around them, Yuuri can tell. Mila and Viktor have a quickness, a savvier air that the rest lack, and which makes Yuuri long for the hazy seaside of Hasetsu. They tend to walk much faster than the others.

These small differences don’t matter. Everybody’s heads snap like a twang of elastic when Yuuri gets close enough for them to notice him.

‘Why are you here,’ Yurio snarls, and elbows Yuuri in the side on his way to the opposite side of the rink. Yuuri wilts under the sudden intensity of their combined stares. He’s never appeared late enough to attract the attention of the entire Russian national team at once. Outside, the air’s so dry and icy that the rink feels _warm_ , and Yuuri knows he must be flushed pink from the cold. Is there something on his nose?

‘Yura,’ Georgi begins, smoothing his ungelled hair out of his eyes. Sweat is cooling on his temples. ‘Are you wearing makeup?’

Yuuri blinks. ‘No?’

‘Mascara?’ Yurio demands. He does an abrupt heel-turn and crosses to the centre of the ice, perhaps at greater speed than the situation calls for; he catches the front of Yuuri’s jacket to squint up at Yuuri’s face, ignoring Viktor’s warning hiss in the background. ‘Foundation? Lipliner?’

‘No?’

Mila chimes in, sounding impressed, ‘Not even a little mascara?’

‘I’m… no.’

‘Ah,’ Viktor says, awed, ‘so you just look this good naturally,’ and draws Yuuri to him and kisses Yuuri’s forehead. Yuuri, who continues to be gripped by insecurity over how Viktor rolls out of bed in the mornings hungover and looking like a _GQ_ covershoot, is confused.

Of course, he forgets everything as soon as he takes to practice in seriousness. It’s restful; it’s like soaring — and the soles of his feet, hardened and cracked from years of training, sting in a reassuring way. Yuuri’s eyesight is only this bad because of all the hours he’s spent with the inscrutable glare of the ice. Someday Yuuri wants to befriend a ballet dancer (other than Minako), so they can compare the state of their feet. Viktor insists on rubbing salve into Yuuri’s lovingly mistreated feet on cool nights, his eyelashes dipped and glinting ivory in concentration; Yuuri agrees, so long as Viktor’ll let Yuuri do the same to him afterwards. Viktor likes taking care of Yuuri. People tend to like Viktor a little bit more after seeing him with Yuuri. This is just how it is.

The sun’s descending into evening by the time Yuuri remembers his other purpose for coming here. St. Petersburg sunsets are beautiful — the days are soft and long, and Yuuri emerges slowly from his underwater focus on the ice, dazed as a newborn. He comes into the locker room where the others are already into their cool-down stretches. Yurio’s workout music, audible through his earphones, is very Yurio indeed. Yuuri and Mila like to play this game: electric guitars _and_ orchestra, Yurio or Otabek? Yuuri’s right in that the playlist choices are often Yurio’s, though Otabek recommends the strangest songs. Yuuri beckons to Viktor before he drops onto the locker room floor to join them.

He wonders; he worries. Sometimes. Viktor’s new programs aren’t as ambitious as Yuuri thought they would be. Yuuri doesn’t see why. After the first week in Hasetsu, his childlike joy at katsudon and alcohol and everything else there was to try, Viktor was diligent about his body — worked out as often as Yuuri did, maybe even _more_ often when Yuuri couldn’t see him. Viktor’s season off wasn’t much of a season off, when you think about it; he’s not all that out of shape. Having dragged himself from their apartment to answer the call of the ice at minus six degrees Celsius, Yuuri can relate. It’s like Viktor always knew he was meant to come back to skating.

‘I brought you a flower.’ Yuuri rummages in his sports bag, tossing packets of band-aids and Xanax aside with abandon. He frowns. ‘Oh, it’s a bit squashed.’

Across the room, Yurio whips out his earphones. Viktor kisses Yuuri’s cheek in thanks, his ears very red. ‘Where did you get this?’

‘I found it on the ground,’ Yuuri explains, ‘and I thought of you.’

Yurio starts clapping with a completely straight face, and Georgi looks up in surprise at the sound. Yuuri leans briefly into the circle of Viktor’s arms — he enjoys their size difference. ‘Katsuki Yuuri.’ Yurio’s voice is flat. ‘Redefining romance.’

Yuuri could probably marry Viktor inside a dumpster and Viktor would find it romantic, but this is so obvious that Yuuri doesn’t bother saying so. Yuuri goes back to his exercises instead. Really, Viktor Nikiforov ought to have higher standards. He doesn’t, which is why they all love him.

Yuuri continues to puzzle over Viktor’s programs while they walk home hand in hand, draped in the shadow of dusk. It’s… _how_? Yuuri’s not good at thinking and assessing like Viktor does. This isn’t Yuuri’s natural state. He can only imagine. Maybe Viktor has decided he doesn’t want to keep up with the quad race, that’s all. Viktor _can_ do anything; he just won’t. He’s done his part. He started this whole trend, landing a quad toe loop in juniors to get gasps of shocked awe from the audience and a cuff upside the head from Yakov. Enough years have passed that the revolution (JJ with his jumps, Yurio winning the GPF on his first try) is spiralling out of control. Viktor doesn’t need to participate in that. He has his name and his legend. That is Viktor’s brand: fall down, come up smiling. Vicious and unstoppable and strong. To take on the younger generation with their insane numbers of quads — Viktor’s own legacy — would be lowering himself, somehow.

Maybe Viktor’s done his calculations, in that unerring way of his, and concluded that the best move is to create programs at the same level as his past seasons’ programs — not escalate the difficulty of the jumps to outdo his rivals — and skate them as beautifully as he always has. If somebody else takes gold it’ll be on their own merits, not because Viktor’s off form. The muscles and deceptively fragile bones which have served him well for twenty years will be remembered for their feats. He will be consistent and nobody will ever see him fail. He will end his last season _without_ an injury. He’s tailoring his descent for the eyes of a still-starstruck public, his graceful withdrawal into the wings, smoothing the way for Yuuri and Yurio — choreographing the fall of Viktor Nikiforov.

 _Please don’t_ , Yuuri thinks. _Please._ Yurio may be hailed as a prodigy but Yuuri will be the first to land five quads in a single program in competition. He already has a headstart on Yurio. Being surrounded by his competitors has done wonders for Yuuri’s motivation.

Yuuri’s mind isn’t cut out for all this analysis. He’s very sleepy, and his skin tingles with his blood and the wind. He can’t survive like Viktor, who needs to be ticking over with ideas in order to be happy; for Yuuri, the times he’s happiest are those rare moments when his brain is quiet.

Like: now, for instance, after they’ve gotten back to their apartment, and Yuuri’s stretched out on the floor of the living room while he waits for Viktor to get out of the shower.

Makkachin pads over to Yuuri and settles down on the rug beside him. Yuuri drapes one arm over Makkachin and closes his eyes; the smooth, polished, expensive wood of the flooring is apricot-warm under Yuuri’s cheek. Yuuri’s so _lucky_. And here he is dozing on the heated floorboards like a well-loved cat, soaking up all that adoration.

Viktor finds Yuuri like that when he comes to tell Yuuri that the bathroom’s free. He stands over Yuuri for a moment, his presence in the room damply heavy, drying his hair with a towel. He’s got a careful quirk to his mouth when Yuuri opens his eyes to look at him. There is no good reason for Viktor to be walking around naked in their own home. Yuuri fucks him on the regular. Water droplets slide temptingly down his chest and fly from the ends of his hair to land on Yuuri’s face. Viktor is being _unnecessary_ , and Yuuri will tell him all about it.

‘We have quite a nice bed,’ Viktor says.

Yuuri gazes up at him, drowsy. ‘It’s empty without you,’ he explains.

‘Oh.’ Viktor’s cheeks stain pink. ‘What are we going to do when we visit your friend Ketty in Detroit?’

‘Mmm.’ Yuuri rolls onto his side and snuggles closer to Makkachin. ‘There probably won’t be room for you in her guest bed, since we’re bringing Makkachin along.’

‘I’m your fiancé,’ Viktor protests, then considers this and appears to agree with Yuuri. ‘Well, I guess Makkachin can take the bed there, and the two of us can sleep on the floor.’

That sounds like a very reasonable suggestion. Yuuri glances up to check whether Viktor’s being serious. He isn’t.

After all these months their apartment feels lived-in, somehow, in a manner Yuuri suspects it never has before. Yuuri has sunk into the flush of a new climate that doesn’t feel new any more. The scents and noises of the city are familiar; what little Yuuri can see of the skyline from their window, when he wakes up cold-nosed and grumpy at five a.m., is familiar. St. Petersburg is ancient and oil-painting gorgeous in a way Yuuri will forever associate with Viktor himself, for reasons Yuuri doesn’t need to think about too hard. It’s a little more crowded than Yuuri’s Hasetsu-trained eyes have come to expect — however, Yuuri has built his career on being notoriously stand-offish due to crippling anxiety, so that’s fine. St. Petersburg is candlelight-golden, and Yuuri steals Viktor’s comb now that his hair is long enough to need one, and dimples at a whiff of Viktor’s cologne, and is ashamed to see that he can recognise nearly all the luxury brands on Viktor’s shelves. From having watched every perfume ad Viktor’s ever been in. That’s a secret Yuuri will never admit to anyone. Except Yurio, who is perfectly able to empathise.

‘He is the best coach I could have had,’ Yuuri replies in all honesty the next morning, when Yakov asks him about Viktor at practice. Viktor’s back is turned and he’s well out of earshot. This is the question Yuuri has been expecting from Yakov for a long time.

‘I thought so,’ says Yakov. ‘Obviously, we will never tell him that, Yura. It would go to his head.’

* * *

Yuuri learns to love his own body in all its iterations because of Viktor. Even back in Hasetsu Viktor was fond of touching Yuuri, cosy and sure. He only ever ventured as far as Yuuri let him, cautious as Yuuri himself; Viktor doesn’t seem to know that Yuuri would allow Viktor closer than anything else in the universe. Viktor studies Yuuri with a sort of tender calculation that makes Yuuri’s skin itch. The chub of Yuuri’s abdomen, his uneven and dirty fingernails, his thighs. After the Cup of China, half-dozing in the buzz of the inn at dinner, Viktor put his chopsticks down and sprawled on the stained floorboards to lay his head in Yuuri’s lap. Nudging up the hem of Yuuri’s T-shirt to get his mouth on Yuuri’s stretch marks — not even in a sexual way, just tasting and feeling Yuuri, reassuring himself of Yuuri’s presence. Yuuri put his hand on the crown of Viktor’s head. Said: ‘We’ll go to bed soon. I promise.’

Viktor is long and slender. Yuuri’s grateful for his own imperfections, since otherwise the world would never be able to cope with how pretty Yuuri is.

Really, Yuuri embarrasses himself with his internal monologue sometimes. He’s hesitating in front of the open wardrobe, trying to talk himself into putting on the pair of new jeans he thinks he looks nice in, when Viktor comes up behind him on silent feet and puts his arms around Yuuri’s waist.

Yuuri startles instinctively before he relaxes into the touch. Some old habits die hard. ‘What are you wearing?’ says Viktor in Yuuri’s ear, tired from the day’s practice but still honey-warm and dripping sultry innuendo all the way down to his toes.

Currently, Yuuri’s wearing his most comfortable boxers and the threadbare sweater he kept throughout college because it’s baggy enough to hide any extra weight. Viktor, Yuuri knows without even bothering to turn around, probably looks like a supermodel. Yuuri fishes out the clothes hanger and steps into his jeans before he can stop to think about what he’s doing. ‘This.’ He stands on one foot and balances with the sole of the other foot flat against his left leg as he does up his fly, a ballet-cum-flamingo pose which is totally unnecessary but makes Yuuri quite happy. ‘Are you ready? Let’s go.’

Three hours later, Yuuri is not sure what possessed him to go drinking with a group of Russians. Yakov, who always gets nostalgic four shots in, reminisces about Viktor’s first program after the haircut while Viktor watches him affectionately, chin in hand. Yes, Yuuri remembers the Swan Lake program very clearly. _Matthew Bourne’s_ Swan Lake. Yuuri takes a moment to be proud of all the boys who came to terms with their sexuality thanks to early-twenties Viktor Nikiforov, and then drains his glass of vodka, since Georgi’s here and therefore anything Yuuri does if he gets drunk will look downright reserved in comparison.

‘Do try to keep up, Yura,’ Lilia tells him. Yuuri nervously pours himself another drink. The vodka burns its way down to his stomach.

‘Practice went well today.’ Georgi turns around on his stool, swaying slightly, and signals the bartender for another round.

‘Mmm,’ Yakov rumbles. Yuuri’s learned to treasure Yakov’s harshest criticism: it means he sees potential in you. ‘You’ve got room for improvement, still.’

‘I liked it,’ says Viktor unexpectedly. Lilia raises her eyebrows. Yuuri sends Viktor a sharp glance — he seems sincere, and Yuuri feels a little bit warmer inside. Georgi answers with a brusque nod, glancing away as he tosses back his drink.

The inside of the bar’s dark and intimate, just dim enough to loosen Yuuri’s reflexive fear of dropping his guard around other people. Not so dark as to obscure his view of Viktor. None of them talk much — not as much as Phichit and Guang Hong would, if they were here — for that isn’t Lilia or Yakov’s style. Their table is draped in a grumbling, weary, over-familiar silence born out of knowing each other too well. Yuuri… yes, Yuuri likes that. Yuuri can get used to that. He’s spent close to twenty-four years hiding behind his anxiety: _don’t bother trying to make friends, and you won’t have to deal with people not liking your personality_. It’s easier. Safe. Phichit fought his way in and stayed there. Yuuko and Takeshi only know things about Yuuri because they’re perceptive, not because Yuuri actually tells them anything.

However.

Here among the Russian skaters, you _have_ to put yourself out there. You _have_ to define yourself as one of the world’s best, for they’ll eat you alive if you aren’t.

‘I don’t understand,’ Yuuri mutters, scrolling through the last fifty or so posts on **_katsukiyuuridaily_**. He doesn’t have to glance up at Lilia’s face while he takes another sip of his drink, concentrating on his phone; he doesn’t have to fret about what she thinks of him. She’s okay. They’re okay. ‘Where do they even get all these practice photos?’

‘It’s Yurio,’ Viktor answers at once, taking advantage of Yurio’s absence. His cheeks are flushed and he’s been smiling a lot in the past half-hour (there will be no removing of clothes in Yakov’s presence, though). His left hand rests absent-mindedly on Yuuri’s thigh, fingers curled inwards. In the low lighting of the bar, his side profile’s hazy yet precise: a kind of classic, old-Hollywood beauty.

‘It’s Vitya,’ Yakov corrects. He sounds irritated, like this should be obvious.

‘It’s Mila’s friend Tatiana Smirnova,’ Lilia says with finality. She frowns at Yuuri as he cradles Viktor’s head on his shoulder. ‘You have met her — the dark-haired girl, she watched you at the Cup of China. Then you forgot her name. You are worse than Vitya.’

Viktor looks as if he’s just seen Yuuri crowned five-time world champion in his stead. ‘Oh, _no_ , you didn’t!’

‘Defend me?’ Yuuri says plaintively.

Viktor beams. ‘No.’

Lilia sniffs. Her hair’s slipping out of its bun, and she raises a hand to tuck the strands back into place. ‘Please.’

‘No one’s ever remembered my name,’ mumbles Georgi.

‘I doubt that,’ Viktor says savagely, raising his head from where he’s been nuzzling into the crook of Yuuri’s neck. ‘I _wish_ I could forget someone like you.’

‘Viktor!’

‘ _Spasibo_.’ Georgi blows his nose on a handkerchief.

‘You can call him Vitya,’ Yakov says to Yuuri, eyebrows rising.

‘You can call me Vitya,’ Viktor repeats, and his eyes go very wide. He’s so weak. Yuuri adores him. Yuuri settles his face against Viktor’s jacket collar, feeling loose and sweet with the alcohol, inhaling the scent of faint spices. Viktor tucks his chin on top of Yuuri’s head. Since Yuuri enjoys being petty, he gently detaches himself (ignoring Viktor’s hurt expression), sits up a bit straighter so he’s got a height advantage on Viktor, and pulls Viktor securely to his chest. Viktor allows himself to be manhandled. It’s not that hard to be a skating legend; Viktor is marrying Yuuri, which is, of course, the biggest prize of all.

‘ _Really?_ ’ says Yakov.

‘He’s right. It is quite easy,’ Lilia agrees, lifting her glass delicately to her lips. Yuuri flushes. Did he say all of that out loud?

Georgi scowls at Viktor, his mood darkening. Yuuri notes this with mild alarm. ‘I thought you were supposed to be the designated driver.’

‘We’ll call a cab. Vitya has a lot of money,’ Yuuri cuts in quickly, jumping to his fiancé’s defense. From somewhere around Yuuri’s eye-level (his vision is getting blurry), Viktor lets out a small, overwhelmed noise. A soft and gentle man! Yuuri will learn to be soft, too.

Most reporters walk away from Yuuri with the uneasy conviction that he hates them. The thought occurs to Yuuri that this needs to change. Georgi seems to be rubbing his eyes, and Viktor coolly reaches into the pocket of his discarded coat, produces a clean eyeliner brush, and hands it to Georgi over the table. They warm Yuuri’s heart. He pats vaguely in Viktor’s direction, and Viktor pats him in return while Yuuri voices his request.

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ replies Viktor, whose entire celebrity career has apparently been leading up to this moment. His eyes crinkle with the force of his smile and Yuuri ponders his own transition from terror to awe to _I have primed my heart to love you since I was eleven years old_. ‘I’ll teach you… You don’t have to try to be nice to people, my Yuuri, you’re very charming —’

‘I want to go to bed,’ mutters Lilia.

‘I want another drink,’ says Yakov. His speech is beginning to slur. ‘Please call the bartender, Lilyusha.’

Yuuri yawns, long and catlike and slow; he’s never felt so at home. He nudges Viktor’s elbow, letting his eyelashes sweep over the curve of his cheek. ‘Stop thinking so much.’

Viktor blinks. Once, then twice. ‘You’re beautiful.’

‘And you’re _mine_ ,’ says Yuuri impatiently. Yakov downs his shot of vodka and reaches for another without pausing. Lilia places her hand comfortingly on Yakov’s shoulder. At the opposite end of the bar, some other patrons are shouting at the TV, and their voices carry harshly across the room. The inside of Yuuri’s head is very quiet, though. Viktor’s fingernails are lovely on his knee.

He looks Georgi up and down in growing concern.

‘Is this Valentina Mikhailovna again?’ demands Viktor with indescribable contempt. Next to Viktor, Yuuri demurely sips his vodka. ‘Listen, if you knew how to take a hint —’

‘I don’t need to hear this from _you_ , Viktor Alexandrovich. I am used to _suffering_ ,’ Georgi bawls. Yakov massages his temples. Yuuri gazes at Georgi for a moment, then waves the bartender over and asks:

‘One more round?’

‘I don’t think so,’ replies the bartender.

‘I understand that this is strange for you, as she shares a name with your mother,’ Georgi hisses, leaning in. ‘Nevertheless —’

‘See, my mother is still my mother, but your girlfriend is no longer your girlfriend.’

‘Enough!’ Yakov barks. Silence descends over their table. ‘You make my head hurt.’

‘I didn’t raise my voice,’ Viktor protests, and Georgi begins nodding in agreement. Neither Yuuri, who’s a younger sibling, nor Viktor, who is so obviously an only child it’s almost painful, are used to these kinds of relationships. Yuuri’s shoes are off for a reason he can’t remember at the moment; he wiggles his toes comfortably.

‘Your _existence_ makes my head hurt.’

‘ _One_ last drink,’ Lilia intercedes, loud and exasperated, ‘and then it’s time to go.’

Viktor smiles. In this light he is a dangerous creature. ‘I have no regrets.’

‘I have many regrets,’ Yakov says darkly. ‘Gosha, a toast?’

‘A toast to that!’ Georgi cries. They all clink glasses across the table. Yuuri squeezes Viktor’s hand underneath the tabletop, though.

‘I think you’re wonderful,’ he murmurs in Viktor’s ear.

‘You toasted to it too,’ says Viktor, unimpressed. Yuuri looks to Lilia for aid, and she shrugs, like: _you knew what you signed up for_. That’s very true. Yuuri sighs; he’s walking the edge of drowsiness and euphoria, and liquid heat is pooling in his stomach. He leans against Viktor for support, since Viktor is solid and real. Viktor is also very pretty. His features are fine and his eyelids like satin. How…?

‘How are you so pretty?’

‘I’ve been wondering that all my life,’ Viktor says, while Lilia and Georgi roll their eyes in unison. ‘Yuuri —’

Yakov slams his palms down on the tabletop. Yuuri ignores him. ‘On your feet, all of you! Up! We’re leaving!’

‘Are you smelling my hair?’ breathes Yuuri.

‘No,’ Viktor says guiltily, lifting his head. The floor has somehow moved very far away and Yuuri discovers that he’s on his feet. Yakov is tucking the coat over Viktor’s shoulders now, frowning and muttering under his breath. Where’s Yuuri’s coat? Oh — here.

‘The sky is in his eyes,’ Yuuri tells Georgi as they stumble out into the freezing air. The pavestones glisten underneath their feet, and the gold sheen of nighttime softens Yakov’s silhouette and the heaviness of Lilia’s dark coat, the long elegance of buildings so rich and bright they can hardly be real. St. Petersburg swallows them.

‘That’s beautiful, Yura.’ Georgi’s voice cracks on the last syllable, and Yuuri realises abruptly that they’ve been speaking Russian for the past ten minutes at least. Oh, this is amazing.

‘I am _going on holiday_ ,’ Yakov hisses at Yuuri’s back.

‘You should have done it while _I_ was on holiday,’ says Viktor severely.

‘I will go with you,’ Lilia tells Yakov. Yuuri’s happy for them. He steadies himself using Viktor’s elbow, except that Viktor isn’t very steady at all, and they end up toppling sideways into a lamppost. Somebody else, possibly Georgi, possibly a random passer-by, sets them gently on their feet.

‘Walk!’ Lilia snaps, fumbling clumsily — much clumsier than usual — in her coat pocket for her phone. ‘Figure skaters…!’

‘I can probably skate drunk,’ Viktor announces into the night.

Yakov makes a sound like a dying cat. ‘Do not try.’

Yuuri giggles, and Georgi catches him. ‘What did you say?’ Georgi asks, balancing the three of them between Yakov’s weight and a nearby traffic light, like a good friend.

‘I can’t stay upright.’

‘He is like soup.’ Viktor sounds a little bit choked up.

Lilia says: ‘Why.’

‘Warm and inside me.’

Georgi sniffles, clearly overcome by emotion. Yakov takes off his hat and polishes it on the inside of his coat. Yuuri — Yuuri, for one, can’t wait for the whole of Team Russia to cry at his and Viktor’s wedding. Phichit will film it for him. He makes a mental note to text Phichit. He pats up Viktor’s waist, searching for a pen, as Viktor carries useful items in his pockets like… like Chanel lip balm, and lube, and —

‘What are you writing?’ Viktor leans blissfully against Yakov, who gazes down at Viktor like he’s some sort of jewelled insect. Yakov clears his throat and Viktor’s hand shoots out to grab the end of Yakov’s scarf before anything happens. ‘No, you stay.’

‘I’m reminding us that we’re getting married,’ Yuuri gasps, leaking ink all over Viktor’s sleeve, ‘so we’ll remember when we’re sober.’

‘ _Oh_ ,’ Viktor breathes, stunned. Yakov seems to be seized by an unexpected fit of coughing. The noise startles Yuuri so he trips and stumbles forward, into Viktor’s arms, into Viktor, nearly getting a faceful of Viktor and Georgi wiping their eyes on each other’s scarves.

‘I am calling a cab to take all of you home,’ says Lilia.

* * *

After sending his belongings to St. Petersburg a week earlier, Yuuri arrived in Russia jet-lagged, and crusty-eyed, and wearing three layers of clothing with his hair rumpled from the plane seat (he flew economy class, of course). Yurio met him at the airport with a scowl and a bag of pirozhki, and spirited Yuuri through the Russian public transport system while snapping at anybody in their way. Yuuri’s head was whirling by the time he got to Viktor’s apartment. It only quietened when he came out of the shower with one of Viktor’s spare towels slung round his neck, and everything narrowed like a pinprick of light to the click of Viktor’s key turning in the lock.

‘There’s a guest room down the corridor. And my bedroom’s just up there,’ Viktor said — back from his ice show, the dark gold charm necklace still hanging around his neck for luck. Yuuri remembered the sight from numerous performances on TV, though he’d never seen it up close. The familiarity of it was grounding. ‘Did you see…? You can choose where you want to sleep, you must be tired.’

‘Okay,’ said Yuuri, yawning, ‘so which room do you sleep in?’ And he wandered into Viktor’s bedroom and crawled into the king-sized bed and slept. He woke up several hours later, with Viktor’s arms wrapped tightly around him and sunlight leaking through the windows.

Today, Yuuri wakes up alone. He lies studying the ceiling for a few moments, then slides from the covers to chase the imprint of Viktor’s presence. The stairs creak under Yuuri’s feet, and he finds Viktor and Yurio at the kitchen table. Viktor’s braiding Yurio’s hair while Yurio struggles through his weekend homework. Yurio slept over at their apartment last night; his leopard-print hoodie’s draped over the back of the sofa in the living room, and he scratches absently underneath his T-shirt, glowering at his calculator. Yuuri goes into the kitchen behind them and pours himself a fresh cup of coffee from the pot.

‘ _Dobroe utro_ ,’ he mumbles.

‘Good morning,’ they chorus. Yuuri retrieves his phone from the counter and looks over Yurio’s shoulder, bringing the steaming mug to his lips with the other hand. Mila’s been telling Yuuri not to learn Cyrillic from Yurio, as Yurio’s handwriting is apparently god-awful. It looks fine to Yuuri though. He checks his notifications: he’s got a text from Yuuko, and he switches to Japanese among his three language keyboards to tap out a quick reply. Then he opens up Twitter to tell Minami that Yuuri’s finally watched his Lohengrin-inspired program. Yuuri doesn’t bother keeping an eye on his own follower count, it scares him.

‘The weather outside is nice,’ Yuuri ventures, watching Yurio attack the foolscap pad like it’s just insulted his jumping prowess. Yuuri’s not a morning person, unlike the other two — but Yuuri has pulled more all-nighters within five years than Viktor and Yurio ever will in their lifetimes, so they’re all very functional in their own ways. ‘Let’s go for a run instead of studying.’

Yurio jerks out of Viktor’s grip as he stretches across the table to grab his eraser. Viktor cuffs the back of Yurio’s head lightly in retaliation. ‘After I finish this.’

‘Algebra is pointless,’ says Viktor, who can mentally total skating scores and do exchange rate conversions in less than a heartbeat. He sets down his comb and reaches for the mug that reads WORLD’S BEST DOG DAD in Russian. Its contents look to be more jam than tea at this point. ‘Nobody uses this in real life.’

‘ _You’re_ pointless.’ Yurio flicks his fingernail against the side of Viktor’s mug. ‘Stop drinking so much of that shit, it’s bad for you. I’m a science student.’

Over the rim of his mug, Viktor’s eyes snap open. ‘You take physics, not biology.’

‘Shut the fuck up.’

‘ _Yurio_ ,’ Yuuri chastises _._ He’s using the mock-patient tone they all know really means _go on, you’re entertaining me_. ‘Be nice to Vitya.’

‘Vitya says —’ Yurio pitches his voice smoother, flicks his fringe out of his eyes exaggeratedly, ‘— “just because Yuuri went to college doesn’t mean you have to go to college, Yurio!”’

Hair tie clenched between his teeth, Viktor snaps his fingers beside Yurio’s ear in irritation. ‘Hold still.’

Yuuri (who doesn’t feel as though he’s cut out for giving teenagers life advice) replies: ‘Right, go to college or you’ll end up like Vitya.’ Viktor gasps.

‘Are you kidding me? I would die for Vitya.’ Yurio twists away from Viktor to glare up at Yuuri, full of righteous indignation. Yuuri and Viktor exchange meaningful glances. Viktor picks up the comb and brushes a few loose strands back into place. ‘I would also murder Vitya. Move, asshole, you’re taking up too much space.’

‘ _Make me._ ’

‘I’m going back to bed,’ says Yuuri serenely.

Viktor joins him perhaps an hour later. Most of their serious conversations take place in bed; or, at least, when they happen to be touching each other. Yuuri has taken to watching videos of his past exhibition skates. He still cringes, of course. He’s not _completely_ changed. But there are little things he can appreciate here and there, like his flying sit spin, or [a delayed single axel](https://youtu.be/hf1tul6kEd8?t=3m31s) thrown in for the fun of it. Maybe one day he’ll even work up the nerve to read the comments. Watching yourself move on a phone screen — for critique, or sheer enjoyment — is a very strange feeling. Occasionally he catches Viktor doing the same, which is new.

Yuuri closes the YouTube app and puts his phone down on the nightstand. He worms himself deeper into the covers. He’s wearing one of Viktor’s old practice shirts, so stretched-out that it’s loose on _Viktor_ — so Yuuri is drowning in it, and this makes him feel cosy and soft and irresistible. ‘Where’s Yurio?’

‘He’s taking Makkachin for his run.’ The mattress dips with Viktor’s weight, and Yuuri doesn’t have to look to know that Viktor is smiling down at him. ‘Thinking about new programs?’

Yuuri pulls the coverlet over his head. His hair’s sticking to the side of his mouth, so he pushes it aside. He can’t wait to get back on the ice with Viktor. ‘On a scale of Leo de la Iglesia to Georgi Popovich,’ he wonders aloud, ‘how dramatic am I?’

‘Do you want another Wagner program?’ Viktor brightens. ‘I’ll choreograph one for you.’

Yuuri sighs. He might as well embrace it.

Viktor’s fingertips brush Yuuri’s forehead as they comb back his hair, very tender. Yuuri rolls onto his side and takes hold of Viktor’s wrist, his fingers cool on Viktor’s pulse; he lets his eyes fall shut. He waits. One, two —

Three. ‘Ah, look at you,’ Viktor says in wonder. Yuuri grins. Right on cue. ‘You’re a breaker of records and hearts, my Yuuri.’

‘Am I?’ Yuuri doesn’t bother opening his eyes. ‘Tell me more.’

Viktor growls and slides under the covers to scoop Yuuri into his arms. ‘You’re so spoiled, Yuuri.’

‘I think I deserve to be spoiled,’ says Yuuri, lightly teasing; he arches up into Viktor’s touch. ‘I’m very loveable.’

'That you are.' Viktor tucks his chin on Yuuri’s shoulder. He must be more tired than Yuuri thought, if he’s coming back to bed after breakfast on a lovely Sunday — drawn to Yuuri as if by magnetic attraction. Yuuri rests one arm over Viktor’s waist while he sorts through all the questions running insoluble in his head. Touching Viktor helps Yuuri think better. This is how they communicate.

‘I feel old,’ Viktor whispers.

‘Don’t let Minako hear you say that. She’ll kill you.’ Yuuri’s head snaps up. ‘Keep this up and I’ll wear that mint-green tie you like to our wedding reception.’

‘ _Yuuri_ ,’ Viktor gasps. ‘You wouldn’t.’

Yuuri smiles at him, beatific. ‘I think it brings out my eyes.’ He kisses the corner of Viktor’s mouth. ‘Do you want to do an ice show together?’

Viktor’s eyelids tremble. ‘Okay.’

Yuuri turns his cheek on the smooth pillow, their feet tangling together beneath the covers. These private mornings without Makkachin are so rare; Yuuri feels like they have forever. They do, actually. It’s not like this ever has to end.

‘So they like to tell me stories about you,’ Yuuri murmurs. He doesn’t count off the medals he can name by heart — not even in his own head, not any more. He’s learned that Viktor doesn’t like being reminded of his track record. ‘What were you really like?’

‘Depressed, mostly.’

‘Ah.’ Yuuri thinks about what to say next. ‘Why did you come back to skating?’

‘You,’ Viktor says, as though this is obvious. ‘What made you start skating?’

Yuuri frowns. ‘You.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> somebody pointed out that georgi's carabosse sp seems [inspired](http://a4ftemperorwithagiantspoon.tumblr.com/post/155342044139) by matthew bourne's sleeping beauty so the logical next step was viktor having a program based on [matthew bourne's swan lake](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CUqfdDEYFLQ)  
> \- viktor: this is the best of russian culture :)  
> \- viktor: tchaikovsky is a national icon :)  
> \- viktor: here enjoy my lovingly crafted tribute to the great ballet and classical music tradition of my country :) :) :)  
> \- viktor: btw, i'm gay  
> [WINS GOLD MEDAL AT SOCHI OLYMPICS]


	2. Chapter 2

Here’s a memory: back in Hasetsu after the Cup of China, Yuuri slipped into Viktor’s bedroom four nights out of seven. Competition season meant no penetrative sex (Viktor is firm on this, Yuuri isn’t), but that didn’t mean they couldn’t do other things. Yuuri made himself leave. Sliding from the soft snoring bed as quietly as he could, tripping over Viktor’s _fucking_ lamps, picking his way across the floorboards to the door like a child caught out after dark. A superstition: if he woke up in his own bed, alone, the world could go on turning. The bare walls of Yuuri’s room — he’d gotten used to how they looked after being stripped of posters, so the sight wasn’t jarring any more — and rays of sunlight slanting across his face. On such mornings there was no danger. The fabric of Yuuri’s head-universe had not yet turned inside out. Viktor would not suddenly change his mind about Yuuri. None of this needed to be real.

Rubbing sleep-crust from his eyes at the washing machine one morning, Yuuri heard his father and Mari discussing — in lazy affectionate whispers — how _considerate_ Viktor was for messing up his bedclothes every night. On purpose. To give the impression he slept in his own bed instead of Yuuri’s. Yuuri cringed inwardly, and then concentrated on hanging up the rest of the laundry, and prayed Viktor’s Japanese wasn’t good enough to understand what they were saying.

(It was.)

‘You _stayed_ ,’ said Viktor, awed, the first time Yuuri forgot — slipped up, too tired — and they woke up together. Yuuri thought: oh.

Yuuri does not _try_ to toy with people. It just sort of happens, he’s slowly coming to realise. Yuuri has spent so long being unsure of himself that he doesn’t see how anybody could ever be sure of him. He can see why they might want to be, though. Maybe he can.

Yuuri is twenty-four, and in love, and part of Russia’s best skater family, and _Japan’s_ best skater himself. He should probably act like it. He reaches out to smooth Viktor’s hair out of his eyes. They’re still lying side by side in the dim security of the covers, soaking in the coolness of a Sunday morning, waiting for Yurio to return with Makkachin from his run. Viktor gets his good looks from his retired-model mother — the natural glow of his presence, the effortlessness in the limelight, learning to catch a camera _just so_ before he learned how to walk. _Unfair_ , thinks Yuuri fondly. Yuuri’s just a boy from Hasetsu. Look at where he is now. What an inspiration Yuuri is; children everywhere should look up to Yuuri.

‘Remember the 2015 GPF?’ Yuuri asks gently, and Viktor’s eyelashes flicker in surprise. Viktor has tactfully never brought that up. ‘I made it all the way to the Final, and I was so disappointed. I thought you didn’t even know who I was.’

‘Of course I’d heard of you. Everyone has heard of you,’ Viktor says, appalled. ‘I just didn’t recognise you with your hair down and your glasses on, that’s all.’

Yuuri suppresses his smile at the thought of Viktor Nikiforov, three-time Olympic medallist, standing around wondering why every skater except him had gotten backstage selfies with Japan’s Katsuki Yuuri. He sits up in bed, propping himself on the heels of his hands. The apartment feels empty without Makkachin — they’re not used to it — though so, so warm. Viktor follows Yuuri up into a sitting position. Leans against the headboard, his fringe (which is getting long) flopping into his eyes. Yuuri takes Viktor’s hand, kisses his ring finger. By nature, Yuuri thinks, he’s never going to be one of those people who readily open up to just anyone; but he has come far enough to meet other people where they are.

‘You don’t have to skate, or retire, or whatever, for me. I just want you to be happy.’ Yuuri reconsiders. ‘And not leave me. Although those could be mutually exclusive —’

‘I’m _not_ leaving,’ says Viktor, shocked. ‘I love you.’

‘Okay.’ Yuuri bites his lip. There it is. There they are.

He used to feel as though he’d made a bargain he didn’t even know about — that some fairytale blessing had been dropped into his lap, and some day the universe would arrive at his doorstep to collect on its debt. Yuuri doesn’t think that’s true. He hesitates for a moment, as Viktor waits patiently for Yuuri to finish thinking, and asks:

‘You know we’re getting married regardless of whether I win a gold medal, right?’

‘Please.’ Viktor’s tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. His eyes are dark, his voice dense with scorn. He’s very pretty when he cries. ‘Obviously you’ll win your gold medal. Trust me, I’m Viktor Nikiforov.’

‘Shhh,’ Yuuri says, exasperated. He puts his fingertip against Viktor’s mouth to silence him. ‘Stay close to me?’

‘Stay close to you,’ Viktor agrees. ‘Yuuri… Yuuri.’

‘Don’t cry.’

‘I’m not crying,’ says Viktor, who is most certainly crying.

‘You’re so predictable,’ Yuuri whispers, kissing his temple. Then Yuuri winces: he’s said the wrong thing, hasn’t he? But Viktor looks thrilled.

* * *

There’s a rumour going around the relevant websites about the time Viktor Nikiforov and Katsuki Yuuri comforted a little girl too scared to step away from the rinkside in St. Petersburg. Yuuri refuses to confirm or deny this. His phone’s on silent and his hair tied back; Viktor’s out for his morning run, and since Yuuri is awake, he will tidy up the apartment a little before they fly off. There isn’t enough time for a proper breakfast, or Viktor would be in the kitchen cooking. The others are still asleep. Lilia and Yurio slept over last night, ostensibly because Yuuri and Viktor’s apartment is closer to the airport than Yakov’s, but really — they all know this — because Yurio wanted to.

Having the apartment to himself is very nice. Going places with the rest of the Russian team is nice. Yuuri tucks his hair behind his ear so the helix piercings catch the light; he sighs, a contented sigh, and pushes the bristles of the broom behind their sofa to chase out the dirt. Viktor hates coming home to an unlived-in apartment — the books and untouched furniture in habitual disarray, months-old dust that rises from the floors, the coffee machine hardly used, the air wilting away from the windows. Yuuri isn’t familiar enough with the feeling to hate it, having never experienced that himself.

He adjusts the earphones underneath his hoodie and shuffles through his playlist. Yuuri gets very into music when he’s doing his chores, an embarrassing habit begun in Hasetsu and immortalised by Phichit’s unholy Instagram powers in Detroit. Saturday mornings in their shared cardboard-box apartment, after his second year of college. Phichit hanging out their clothes to air-dry; Yuuri scrubbing clean the plates piled up from yesterday’s takeout. Phichit’s study playlist (which is also his workout playlist, and his cheer-up playlist, and his potential-skating-programs-can-I-please-Celestino playlist) blasting from the speaker Yuuri received from a nice Indian-American girl on his birthday, for reasons Yuuri has yet to determine. Now the memory makes him smile.

Yuuri runs a clean rag under the tap and gets to work on the ring-stains on their tabletop. Yurio’s messy in ways only a fifteen-year-old can be; last night he had to be nagged by Lilia to help with the dishes after dinner, and naturally Viktor proceeded to do the dishes instead, out of spite. In Detroit Phichit discovered that, if he used his special Yuuri-voice on Yuuri long enough, Yuuri could be persuaded to drop his dishcloth and spin around and break into full-on choreography to whatever Top 40 hit Phichit was listening to at the moment. For the longest time these videos were the only #katsukiyuuri content Yuuri’s fans got to enjoy. Viktor liked one of them once, and then went through Phichit’s Instagram account and liked every single one (this was four years ago, long before the banquet). Yuuri refused to believe that until Phichit showed him. Phichit followed Yuuri around for the next three days, gasping softly at every marginally lovely thing Yuuri did and going ‘Wow! Amazing!’ in his best impression of Viktor’s voice, which was and remains _terrible_.

Yuuri is beginning to suspect that he’s the last person surprised that Viktor fell in love with him. He’s sweeping any and all traces of dust from their kitchen with gusto, tossing and catching the broom from hand to hand and swinging his hips and singing along to J-pop, when Lilia rounds a corner and Yuuri promptly trips over his broom.

‘Good morning, Lilia Vasilyevna,’ he stammers.

‘Good morning, Yura.’

He pauses respectfully as she passes by, making her way to the downstairs bathroom. She makes a twirling motion with her left hand for him to carry on singing. He carries on.

(Yurio uploads the video at Instagram primetime and Yuuri spends the rest of the day hiding under the covers in their hotel room in Lausanne.

‘You’ll dip a broom while dancing but not me?’ Viktor complains.

‘The broom doesn’t gaze into my eyes until we miss the next beat of the music, Vitya!’)

* * *

Here is a non-exhaustive list of Yuuri’s talents: step sequences, spins, accidentally killing the mood so that Viktor laughs so hard they fall out of bed, and falling. Nobody falls like Yuuri can. He’s done it innumerable times; he can pick himself up smoothly and go into the next part of his choreography without missing a single count. He is an expert on turning shaky landings into long sweeps over the ice that look like the mistake was _planned_. He’s not built to be a jumper like Viktor Nikiforov or Yuri Plisetsky, but falls are one area where Katsuki Yuuri will remain undefeated. He’s a living legend, there.

‘Shut the fuck up,’ snaps Yurio, even though Yuuri didn’t say anything. ‘Just because you didn’t score in the hundreds _this_ time doesn’t mean it’s the end of the world. You know, some people are happy about placing fourth after their short program! You place second and look like you want to kill yourself!’

‘You’re a hypocrite, Yurochka,’ Mila tells him cheerfully, saving Yuuri from having to think of an adequate response. ‘Carry your own suitcase!’

Yurio opens his mouth to retort; then Yuuri looks at him and he scowls and takes his suitcase from Mila without a word of objection. They form a tight little group, here, picking their way across an airport in Marseille. Yurio and Viktor are moving on to Paris now, and Mila and Yuuri are on their way to Milan. Currently Yurio’s grumbling about not being able to read menus in French without Viktor — who abandoned them at the airport’s taxi stand to go catch up with Chris. This is only fair, since Mila and Yurio spent ten minutes making fun of Viktor about the ticket misspelling his name as “Viktor Niliforv”.

‘I know some Italian?’ says Mila. ‘Close enough, they can’t be _that_ hard to understand, these people use the Latin alphabet like barbarians.’

‘Shhh,’ hisses Yuuri, whose own native tongue uses no fewer than three writing systems. ‘You never know who around here speaks Russian.’

‘You guys okay over there?’ a well-known voice shouts behind them while they drag their suitcases across the dully gleaming floor towards the check-in counters. Beside Yuuri, Yurio closes his eyes as if pained, then turns them up to the ceiling and mutters something foul. ‘Let me know if you need help translating! I speak Québécois!’

‘Quoi le fuck?’ Yurio says. ‘Who invited you? I don’t remember inviting you. Go away.’ He grabs Yuuri’s elbow protectively.

Yuuri has picked up a lot of words in other languages throughout his figure skating career. He knows _je t’aime_ , and about three different ways to say _ça va?_ , and vaguely obscene phrases he’s learned from dozing over his black coffee as Viktor and Chris chatter in an airport McDonald’s at two a.m., and _c’est l’anxiété_ with a bright smile. He doesn’t have the words to admit that _sometimes I’m not sure I’ll ever be good enough, and every hint to the contrary is proof that sticks longer than the good reminders and makes me certain I’m not_.

Yakov screamed at Yuuri for half an hour. (This is how Yuuri knows he has made it with the Russian team.) Yurio kicked down the door of the bathroom stall Yuuri was hiding in, which is becoming something of a running joke between them. Lilia came to their apartment on the day Yuuri needed to stay home from practice, and sat across from Yuuri at the kitchen table, staring him down until he had to — _had_ to — come up with some semblance of an explanation.

‘I can’t… I can’t rely on anything outside myself,’ he admitted. When Lilia’s lips thinned in disapproval he added quickly, ‘I know, I know that’s not right.’

‘Well,’ said Lilia. Yuuri thought that she had clearly dealt with mentally ill students, be they skaters or ballerinas, several times over the course of her career, and this was reassuring. ‘Here is a number. You can call it, or not. The choice is yours.’

As if anyone could say the Xanax wins his competitions for him. Yuuri wins his own damn competitions.

‘You’re a moron,’ snarls Yurio now, as they wait for Mila outside the ladies’ bathroom. ‘I know how you think. Vitya has ten gold medals, probably more, I’m not going to count them. So he’s better. You have… oh, plenty of golds in juniors, and plenty from Japanese nationals, but those don’t count, do they? So, _logically_ … like, at an auction, they’d sell you for less. That kid who idolises you —’

‘Who?’

‘Yeah, which one?’

‘Minami?’ Yuuri asks desperately.

‘— he hasn’t won a single gold medal at any major competitions, so you think he’s worthless —’

‘Yurio!’

Yurio arches an eyebrow. ‘Didn’t say you were wrong. I’d call him worthless too.’

Yuuri thinks that his hard-won ability to conceal the uglier sides of himself is a big part of the reason he’s so well-liked. The fact that Yurio can read all of this scares him.

‘Don’t touch my Yuuri,’ says Viktor, almost mild, after they finally locate him and Chris at a wine shop outside the departure lounge. Viktor and Chris have matching Gucci sunglasses. This detail is very representative of their friendship.

‘ _I_ am your Yuri. He is the inferior specimen.’ Yurio tightens his grip on Yuuri as though he thinks Viktor will come over and pry Yuuri away from him.

* * *

Viktor texts the way a dog might text if dogs could type.

 **Vitya:** Proud of me?

 **You:** proud of you ❤

 **You:** i’m waiting for you at worlds

 **You:** i mean i’m waiting for you at home, but also at worlds

 **Vitya:** !!!!

 **Vitya:** !!!!!!!!

 **You:** !!!!!

 **You:** you put the trophy in trophy husband

 **Vitya:** !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 **You:** ❤❤❤❤❤

 **Vitya:** Yuuri?

 **You:** mm?

 **Vitya:** Now what

 **You:** now you put the trophy husband in me baby

 **Vitya:** OKAY

‘Why is he like this,’ Yuuri says aloud, and tosses his phone aside.

(‘You’re home,’ says Yuuri, opening the door so that Makkachin can rush out to greet Viktor, ‘ah, you’re home, you’re home,’ and calmly allows himself to be swept into Viktor’s arms. Viktor tips his head back to let Yuuri kiss his throat.)

* * *

Georgi is back together with Valentina Mikhailovna. Yuuri knows firsthand that Viktor sends Christmas cards to Anya, a not-quite-secret none of them will ever breathe to Georgi, as they have all agreed that this is for his own good. Georgi’s having something of a crisis (they’re on break) and Mila isn’t here, and Yurio is merely scornful, so Yuuri does the only thing he can think of. He gets onto his hands and knees and lies down on the ice beside Georgi. Georgi appreciates their camaraderie, and says so. Yuuri does not know what “camaraderie” is in Russian. He’s just guessing.

The ice is very cold. Yuuri’s muscles are very sore, and lying down is nice. He could get used to this. Georgi’s ranting fades into pleasant background noise, and Yuuri closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep.

He must only doze for a few minutes, because he wakes up to Georgi still going on inexorably next to his ear. Viktor’s standing over them with his arms crossed, gazing down at Yuuri and Georgi with a distinctly unimpressed expression.

Smiling sleepily up at Viktor, Yuuri extends a hand and pats the ice beside him. After all these years Yuuri’s Viktor-radar is still going strong, even when he’s not conscious. They’ll be together forever.

‘Vitya, do you want to…?’

‘No,’ Viktor says.

It’s nice to see Yurio and Viktor in agreement for once, Yuuri thinks as he slides back into slumber.

* * *

Yuuri loves going to public ice rinks. He loves wrapping up thick and warm so that he’s nearly the same size as Viktor, and holding cups of steaming coffee between their gloved hands, laughing and trying to disguise the speed and flexibility of their movements on the ice. Children and mothers and crowds — their dates like these help Yuuri remember how much there is waiting for him, remind him of who he is.

Sometimes they run into fans. Viktor — who, like Yuuri, was trained to do compulsory figures although they’re no longer required for competition — is carving out deep and gorgeous figure-eights at the other side of the rink, his face tranquil in concentration. Yuuri pinpoints the exact moment the woman next to Yuuri recognises Viktor, and then turns to call to her friend and finds Yuuri conveniently at her side out of pure coincidence.

It is a gratifying feeling.

‘Katsuki Yuuri?’ she demands, and begins rattling at him in Russian, possibly overestimating Yuuri’s facility with one of the most difficult languages after months of immersion. Yuuri doesn’t know what to do, so he bows. The woman bows back. Yuuri bows lower, and this may have continued indefinitely, except that Viktor glides over to rescue him.

‘Thank you for your support!’ says Viktor, while he compliments her coat and asks after her children and signs her napkin using the luxury gold-plated pen Viktor keeps in his pocket for precisely this purpose. Yuuri uses a ballpoint pen for his autographs like a normal person. He leans against Viktor’s shoulder and smiles, not understanding, all through Viktor’s rapid-fire and very charming conversation with this woman.

She smiles back and adds in heavily accented English, ‘The Russian hero and the Russian people’s son-in-law!’

‘We’re not married yet,’ Yuuri says helplessly. ‘Do you, um, do you want me to take a picture for… I mean, do you want a picture with me and Vitya?’

* * *

‘So Phichit tagged me in this figure-skaters-do-their-performance-makeup challenge,’ Yuuri says, fiddling with the camera on their bedside table. ‘And Chris and Guang Hong and a bunch of other people, so I’m… actually the last person to do this — sorry, Phichit — and you should go watch their videos if you haven’t already. Oh, and he tagged me in the fan questions challenge in his latest vlog, which I’m also going to do, except that I’m too nervous to film myself talking so I’ll just answer your questions while putting on makeup so I don’t have to make eye contact with the camera.’

He takes a deep breath, glances at his reflection in the mirror and frowns. There isn’t much to say, really.

‘Um. Okay, so most of us skaters don’t wear foundation as we tend to sweat it off. So prepping to go on the ice really starts with the hair — I’ve kind of forgotten how to do it, Viktor usually brushes my hair for me, but I’ll try.’ Yuuri keeps one eye on the camera as he runs the comb through his hair, warming to the sound of his own voice. ‘Phichit uses a lot of gel, too! And Georgi? Chris doesn’t, I think. I’m not sure about the ladies, though. Viktor’s watching TV in the living room, by the way. I don’t… really own a comb, so I always use his.’ He pauses to examine the implement in his hand, noticing its branding for the first time. ‘Why does he have a Dolce and Gabbana comb? I don’t know! Anyway —’

Yuuri unlocks his phone, which has gone to sleep.

‘— Benjamin from Montreal wants to know what my favourite program is. Oh. Well, it’s so hard to say… I like Viktor’s Stravinsky free skate from the 2012 to 2013 season, and the tango from his second Olympics, and Phichit’s — oh, sorry, you meant my own programs. Um.’ He has to take a second to think about it. ‘I like all my exhibition skates equally? I don’t know. I think I’ll go with the Studio Ghibli medley because it gives me nostalgia. Oh, here’s Makkachin. Hi, Makkachin!’

Yuuri stoops to retrieve Makkachin’s chew toy.

‘This is not working,’ mutters Yuuri regretfully, squinting at the mirror. He sighs and puts the comb down. ‘Vitya!’ he calls.

There follows a full minute of footage Yuuri knows Phichit will edit out before he uploads this video, as Phichit is a good friend. Yuuri relies on Phichit’s social media capabilities very often. Most of these questions are being relayed to Yuuri through Phichit’s various accounts or Viktor’s Twitter. Viktor disappears around the corner again, and Yuuri pauses, gets his smile back under control, and resumes talking.

‘Okay. So… hair, done, concealer, done, um… what’s next? Makkachin, don’t eat my mascara. Oh, now you have to set your undereye concealer because the camera zooms in on your face at inconvenient times. It’s quite irritating, actually. Um, I’m going to hold this up to the camera against my hand, like the ladies in the YouTube tutorials I watched to get ready for this video. This is —’

Yuuri looks down at the product in consternation. There’s no name on the lid and no packaging. Yuuri’s been using the same brand for about twelve years.

‘— a setting powder… which I bought from… somewhere in Russia. It doesn’t smudge when I cry. Highly recommended. Next we have a question from Yuexiang in China —’

Yuuri resigns himself to living with a permanent level of mild Internet fame.

* * *

‘I’m extremely proud of how far you’ve come, Yura,’ says Yakov at the rink. ‘You set a good example for Yurochka. Now I will need you to make a few promises, because the day you inherit Vitya’s signature hair flick is the day I retire. Say “I will not wink at the paparazzi more than necessary. I will not pose sensually for Tom Ford ads. I will not fight the RSF on morally defensible grounds so Yakov has to stick up for me —”’

‘Leave him alone, Yakov!’ Yurio snaps. He sweeps his hair up into a bun and makes a point of sailing onto the ice well ahead of Yuuri. _Look at him go_ , thinks Yuuri, fond. He unscrews the cap of his water bottle and takes a long sip as he watches Yurio.

Viktor arrives looking like a wet dream, with two matryoshka Starbucks tumblers of coffee for himself and Yuuri, and calming tea and a smile for Yakov. Across the rink, Yurio’s trying to master a quad axel. _Why not_ , Yurio growls when asked, and Viktor (who does not know what average difficulty levels are) nods encouragingly in the background. Yurio’s fifth attempt today is a distressing failure: he picks himself up, curses, and flies into a beautiful, fluid Biellmann spin to blow off some steam.

‘Wow,’ Yuuri and Viktor say simultaneously.

Cut off mid-rant about Viktor’s chronic lateness and lack of remorse, Yakov twists round to find Yurio again straining his fragile limbs to learn jumps that are _not_ Yakov-approved, while Viktor acts as the distraction. Viktor and Yurio are a lethal team. It’s a good thing for everybody else that they disagree so often. Yakov points at Viktor and finishes: ‘And you, get your skates on!’ and stomps off to deal with Yurio.

Viktor’s eyelashes flicker as he bends down to lace up his skates. The traces of his smile still linger around his mouth; Yuuri loves him so, so much. He looks content.

‘Come on,’ says Yuuri, taking Viktor’s ungloved hand in his own. ‘It’s not the same without you.’

Viktor’s eyes crinkle at the corners. Taking his first quick, confident steps towards the rinkside with his skate guards on, he raises his eyebrows when he notices Yurio’s bear-print new practice shirt.

‘Where did he get that?’

‘Gosha bought it for him.’

‘Nice shirt!’ Viktor calls, cupping his hands over his mouth. ‘Does it go with your knife shoes?’

‘ _Fuck off_ ,’ Yurio roars, sweeping into a breathtaking triple lutz. Yuuri claps. Viktor puts one hand over his heart, eyes wet with pride.

* * *

 **Phichit:** pls

 **Phichit:** i am a gift from the gods and u should be thanking ur lucky stars for the chance to marry ME

 **Phichit:** ME!!!

_Phichit Chulanont sent an image: wowamazing.jpg_

**You:** i hate how you send me viktor memes

 **Phichit:** the man has photos, i have photoshop skills

 **Phichit:** it’s a match made in heaven

 **Phichit:** anyway u abandoned Me, the best skater in thailand, to marry viktor nikiforov, (can’t blame u tho) so i guess i’ll have to make a pact with chris instead to get married if i’m single at 30

 **You:** he has a bf

 **Phichit:** gdi

_You sent an image: ordinaryandmediocre.jpg_

**Phichit:** cropping could be better, but a+ expression, good lighting, #relatable caption. u put ur husband to good use. 7/10

 **You:** i hate this

 **Phichit:** ur welcome

 **You:** also i’m sure you will be able to find a good man to take care of you phichit. take heart from the thought that even if you die single, you will not die alone, but surrounded by hamsters

 **Phichit:** wow ur so much better at comforting people now that ur getting laid

 **Phichit:** thanks

 **You:** i don’t recall giving you permission to sass Me, the best skater in japan,

 **Phichit:** OOOOOOOH

 **You:** ok at least until yuzuru starts competing in seniors? but i think i’ll prob have retired by then

 **You:** he’s quite young

 **Phichit:** i’m so proud :’)

 **Phichit:** i’m so proud of u baby boy

_Phichit Chulanont sent an image: icedaddy.jpg_

**You:** GOODBYE

* * *

Galas with all the skaters on the ice together are Yuuri’s favourite part of any competition, hands down. The music’s ridiculous: Viktor follows him across the ice, eyes laughing, laughing aloud, circling Chris like a pair of bright and wonderful peacocks. Yuuri almost doesn’t want to distract Viktor when Viktor is having so much fun — but he can’t resist, Viktor pulls him in like a thread. Yuuri comes in right on cue to hit the chorus. The audience whoops when he and Viktor nail a quad flip side by side in perfect synchronisation; Chris dips Yuuri, Yuuri dips Phichit, and they stumble off the rink together sweaty and giggling.

They’re so happy. They’ll be happy forever. Yuuri, Viktor and Yurio get onto the podium together, when they’re finally all at the same event; it was only a matter of time. This — the three of them, together — feels like an inevitability, and it’s so much more glorious now that it’s safely in Yuuri’s grasp.

It’s also only a matter of time (two minutes) before Yurio starts sobbing and jumps off the podium to run round to Viktor’s side and fling himself into Viktor’s arms.

‘Oh no,’ mutters Yuuri, preparing himself for everyone else’s tear ducts to begin leaking, including his own. Yurio’s too short for Yuuri to reach from the top of the podium, so he pats Viktor instead. ‘Yurio? Yurio?’

* * *

Back home in St. Petersburg, Makkachin snores at their feet in front of the sofa while Yuuri and Yurio concentrate on their video game. Makkachin’s getting old. They’ll grow old together. Yurio sucks in a sharp breath and falls back against the back of the sofa, mashing the buttons of the console uselessly. ‘Yuuri, what the fuck!’

‘Wins gold at the GPF and still can’t beat my high score,’ Yuuri muses, and kills Yurio’s avatar a second time just as he respawns. ‘“Russia’s other champion”, huh?’

‘I hate you,’ Yurio growls.

Viktor comes to stand in the doorway, wiping his hands on the front of his apron. ‘You two having fun?’

Yurio tosses his hair out of his eyes (Yuuri grins; Yakov would have a heart attack) and shoots Viktor an accusatory glance. ‘Your fiancé’s an asshole, Vit’ka.’

‘I already knew that,’ Viktor says, mouth quirking. ‘Yurio, I’ve made up the guest room for you. You can have Yuuri’s plushies in your bed if you like.’

Yurio hisses at the TV screen. His cheeks are warm. He doesn’t say yes to Viktor’s offer.

He doesn’t say no, either.

* * *

Yuuri wins gold. He keeps winning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you very much for sticking with this series! and many thanks to the artist who linked the video of junichi suwabe doing the japanese dub of the lantern duet in tangled in their own tangled viktuuri au on tumblr, thus sending me on the youtube spiral that led me to [yuuri’s singing voice](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xg8vAonTwgs). yes durarara!! exists in yoiverse and mikado ryuugamine is voiced by daisuke takahashi sorry i don't make the rules
> 
> i left viktor’s career open-ended in this bc i really can’t predict where the show will go and this is not a viktor-centric fic. also it just seemed like a good place to stop. i hope you don’t mind too much


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